Knight of the Grail
by robhumph
Summary: Honour is all, Chivalry is all. After the horrors of the Thousand Thrones, Guillaume de Lusignan a Questing knight of Bretonnia, is thrown into the lands of Ice and Fire. How will this chivalrous knight cope in this new world? And how will he face the horrors of his own land that have followed him? ((OC main character, canon pretty much everyone else))
1. Prologue

**Think after nearly a year and a half it's fair to say I gave up completely on the Elder Scolls/ASoIaF crossover quite some time ago. Can't really offer any excuses beyond me simply not wanting to continue with it anymore. But! That's a bit off topic for this one I think.**

**Welcome to Knight of the Grail, a crossover between Games Workshop's Warhammer Fantasy Battles (_NOT _Age of Sigmar, may it be cursed for eternity for not having Bretonnia or the Tomb Kings in it!) and GRRM's A Song of Ice and Fire. Specifically this is a crossover between Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, since it's based after the dreaded Thousand Thrones campaign, which me and a few others are playing through right now as it happens, with the main char of this fic being my char... I'm fairly certain I have doomed him to being shanked in the game now since I've jinxed him by making him important here. **

**Oh well, I still have 2 fate points left... I should stop talking.**

****_I do not own either Warhammer Fantasy Battles/Roleplay and nor do I own A Song of Ice and Fire. I make no profit from this at all. Happy now GRRM?_****

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**Guillaume de Lusignan**

_I pledge my service and my loyalty, body and soul, to my Lord._

Ragged, pained breaths. That was all Guillaume could hear.

_When the clarion call is sounded, I will ride out and fight in the name of liege and Lady._

Move forward. That was all Guillaume could do.

_Whilst I draw breath, the lands bequeathed unto me will remain untainted by evil. _

The light at the end of it all. That was all Guillaume could see.

_Honour is all. _

The loss, their deaths. That was all Guillaume could think of.

_Chivalry is all._

The horror he had witnessed below. That was all Guillaume's mind could take.

_This I swear on my blood and my breath._

The pain of every step. That was all that Guillaume's body would tell him.

At last, the light engulfed what vision remained unto him. The ground softened. Harsh stone gave way to sweet and supple snow. Still, he staggered on, willing his legs to carry him forth, to anywhere but here, to anywhere but the thrice-damned womb that lay beneath him, where the corpses of so many rotted. He did not get far, his body was too weak, his spirit too spent, his mind too shattered. Blackness overtook him. He tried to cry out in vain, wishing to see no more darkness. But nothing came, and he fell.

The dreams, those cursed dreams. The boy, the poor boy born of a gift too strong for him to control. The witch, that foul creature who had brought all of this upon the world. Of the wizard and the hunter, those steadfast friends who had been with him since... since... he could not remember, only that they now lay deathly still beneath the surface of the world. But in his dreams they were not, they were living, smiling and happy. He thought for a moment that the lady had been merciful and he had perished, that he was to be allowed to join them in the afterlife, to rest. But it was not to be, for the blinding light was returning, would he ever be offered such sanctity as death?

Eyes creaking open, all Guillaume saw at first was white, pure and ethereal. It was day, and the snows had stopped for now. Above him, a glorious sky of pure blue with elegant wisps of cloud lorded above him. The evil that had once stained the land was fading, if only fleetingly, for the taint ever remained or returned in time. But for now, it brought Guillaume some measure of comfort, if only a preciously small amount.

He tried to stand, but he could not, his legs were in open revolt and stubbornly remained where they lay. All he could do was use his arming sword, that which he had bared from his homeland, from dear Bordeleuax to this cold wracked edge of the world, to push his body up. The tip dug into the snow and into the firm ground beneath and stuck fast. But it did not matter, all Guillaume cared about was using it to push himself up. Eventually, after many agonising minutes of struggle, he was set against a rock that he had collapsed near, the snow upon it providing a pillow for his weary back. He did not move after that, his body would forbid it even if his mind had wished it, but it did not. So there he remained, hand resting upon the hilt of a sword of Bretonnia. He slipped in and out of the blackness so many times he could not count, it was a dreamless blackness this time, for which he thanked the Lady.

When he woke for the last time, as the sun passed beneath the mountains, sounds of another's footsteps, piercing through the sheer silence of the empty frozen wasteland, at last roused Guillaume's mind. Turning his head back towards the cave from whence he had come, he saw a red figure stagger out, in much the same way Guillaume himself had. As the figure stepped out into the shadows of twilight, illuminated by the light that snow brought, Guillaume recognised him quickly. Wilhelm Von Hollenbach.

A Blood Dragon vampire, Guillaume had first encountered Wilhelm in a small village within the Empire, the name of the village Guillaume could not recall, only that it was there that Wilhelm had been. They had fought there, briefly, when Guillaume was just a Knight Errant of Bretonnia eager to prove himself. Now, near on a year later, met once again, only neither was in a fit state to fight. For Hollenbach was limping as he left the cave, his armour held deep gashes, his face a torn mess of deep rends in the flesh. "Bretonnian." Hollenbach sneered with a voice dripping with pain and exhaustion if even his fell kin felt anything of the sort. The beast made a show of looking around, shrugging his shoulders theatrically whilst a blood-dripping sword hung from his hand. "Where are your fellows, Bretonnian?"

"Dead." Guillaume struggled to say, both from the pain, exhaustion and rage at seeing this monster again. "And yours?"

Hollenbach tried to laugh, but the strain of it as he walked made him stumble forward. "RAGH!" The monster roared in protest at his failing body, and pushed himself back up to his feet, now leaning on the sword he carried for support. "Dead by my blade."

It was Guillaume's turn to stand. And unlike the vampire, he could feel the pain his weakened state gave him, so he spoke through gritted teeth. "Theodora? Carstien? The Necrarch and the Strigoi?" Guillaume had known little of vampire lore, but that was before the whirlwind that was his life for the past year had been. Each of the five bloodlines had been here, and each were led by foes Guillaume had faced.

"The Strigoi was the first." Hollenbach spat. "De Trois the next. The Nurglist had taken Carstein, I could only savour her screams as he did his unholy things to her." He said as he waited for Guillaume to stand, to be worthy of being his foe. "Theodora, Neferata's whore, was the last. It is the blood of her followers that grace my blade, but none were worthy of being drained by myself, for they were all willing slaves of the whore of Lahmia."

"And so now it is just me?" Guillaume asked, finally erect upon his feet, his greatsword unsheathed and readied. His strength may be failing, but he would not back down from such a fight, nor would he give in without one.

Hollenbach gave a nod, and the two warriors began would should have been the elgant dance of combat, but in their state it was more of a shuffle. "I would have worthy blood." He said, desperation for sustenance lining his voice, and he advanced, swinging his sword with all the might his curse could grant him.

Guillaume made to parry, but before the clash of steel could sound in that coldest reach of Kislev, at the very end of a long road of suffering and death, both man and Vampire were drowned in light. For Guillaume, it was a bright and warm light, welcoming and comforting. For Hollenbach, it was the deep crimson of blood, dark and forboding.

Neither could say what happened, it is likely not even the greatest of scholar's or even Nagash himself could comprehend what had befallen Guillaume de Luisignan, Questing Knight of Bretonnia, and Wilhelm von Hollenbach, Blood Dragon of Abhorrash.

All that was certain, was that neither would ever see their birthplace ever again.

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**Cheers for reading. Feel free to leave a review. All criticism is appreciated.**


	2. Chapter 1

**Wow. Just wow. I did not expect such a good response to this. You guys are just amazing for reading this so much already.**

**Won't hold you long up here. But I'd just like to say that I am, moving forward, going to be trying to enforce within myself a word limit. This chapter is already below that, as it's only about 2K and I want 3K to be the smallest, but this was that awkward arrival moment in the crossover I wanted to get done at a decent pace before we got on to the juicy parts.**

**Enjoy the read!**

****_I do not own either Warhammer Fantasy Battles/Roleplay and nor do I own A Song of Ice and Fire. I make no profit from this at all.**_**

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**Chapter 1**

The light that had engulfed Guillaume was like nothing he had ever felt before. It brought all the warmth of the sun, all the comfort of a fine summers day in the gently rolling hills of his homeland, and the pleasure of lounging in the serene lakes of his father's estates. While he was in that glorious glow, all pain and suffering fell from his body and his mind as if washed away by the waters of the Brienne enchanted by the Fay of Loren themselves. For those precious moments, he felt truly at peace with the world and everything that had ever befallen him. Was this what death felt like?

Alas, it was not to be. For almost as soon as it had begun, the light faded away. Comfort was replaced with pain, peace with weariness. The world was black, and all Guillaume could feel were the aches of his body.

"...-aking up." Guillaume heard a voice say out of the darkness. It felt distant, and yet at the same time close. "Boy, get his lordship." The voice said again, sounding even closer now.

Slowly, Guillaume's body awakened, following behind the mind. No single part of him was without cramps or aches, and any attempt to move any of them, to flex the legs or lift the arm, was met only with the feeling of the offending parts being dipped in boiling water. When he groaned from it all, a gentle hand gently fell to his shoulder, and the voice returned. "Calm, Ser. Don't move. Try opening your eyes."

Guillaume thought to brush off the suggestion, lapsing for a moment back into the impetuosity that had coloured him so vividly nought but a year prior. But instead, the words died before they had even left his mind, and gradually he pried his eyelids open. The light they let in was discomforting for a moment, as was so often the case when awakening from a lengthy slumber.

As his eyes got used to being used once again, Guillaume could see he was in a pavilion of blacks and purples, and lying within a cot of blankets of the same colour. He could see little else, his head refusing the move much at all, but something was off, that much he could tell. It took longer for him to realise that it should have, but eventually, he noticed the absence of something that should have been engulfing him so utterly it would drive to his very bones. The cold of Kislev was gone, and in its place was a warmth he had not felt since his last summer in fair Bretonnia.

He should have been concerned. His mind ought to have been a battleground for many differing ideas as to what had happened. Had he been moved elsewhere? Was he truly in the afterlife, no, the pain was too strong for that. Though he had willed these questions on to himself, no more came and instead they were all replaced with only the gratefulness at simply being alive and out of the cold, no matter how it had all transpired.

"Can you move your head, Ser?" The voice asked again, and instantly Guillaume knew something was amiss. It was not because he misliked the request, or that he could not yet move his head, though that was indeed some cause for concern, it was something entirely different. The voice was not speaking either the reikspiel of the Empire or the breton of his own country, and yet Guillaume could understand him. It was the most peculiar feeling Guillaume had ever felt, to be able to comprehend something he knew he should not and to be able to tell so clearly that all was not right. It worried him to his core, but he could think or find any answer within himself and ultimately convinced himself it was but the will of the Lady of the Lake. However, deep down he knew this to be a falsehood, he was just willing to live with such a falsehood while it still brought some comfort.

Now, both battered and worried, Guillaume willed his neck to come back under his command, so that he may look upon who had spoken. When he did, he expected to see some vile sorcerer who was infesting his mind or some other foul being. But instead, all he saw was a pleasant looking elder man in grey robes, not unlike those worn by priests in the Empire.

When Guillaume looked to gaze upon him, the man smiled and it was one of pure warmth and kindness, something that spread all across that weathered and wrinkled face topped with tufts of wispy white hair. "Oh, excellent, Ser. I had feared you may be paralysed for a moment." He said, sounding much alike father Helmut, a priest of Sigmar and good man Guillaume had known, in tone, sounding as though he found joy in everything good. "Do not try to move anything else, Ser. Your body is weary."

Sound advice, Guillaume thought, though a bit redundant as his neck was the only thing that deigned to obey the whims of its master. Still, there he remained as the old man stood over him, lifting the blanket that covered Guillaume and inspecting him. Guillaume himself did the same and saw that the wounds he had carried from the womb were still there, much to his concern and weariness. They had been cleaned and bandaged however by the looks of it, and the old man was busy looking over them, prodding the one on his thigh and humming to himself and eventually nodding contently.

"You were grievously injured when we found you, Ser, but you are healing well." He said with a smile and returned to the stool beside the cot he had been sat upon. "In fact, they seem to be healing most quickly, you are gifted with a resilient body, it seems."

The sounds of people arriving drew the attention of the old man, and Guillaume strained to see who had just entered the pavilion, but his body once again rebelled against him in that regard. "How is he, Olyvar?" the voice asked before the owner finally entered Guillaume's field of vision. A young man, of age with Guillaume by the looks of it and Guillaume had seen twenty-six winters. He was handsome, Guillaume would freely admit that, with a dashing look and bright red hair that matched a well-groomed red beard.

"You can ask him yourself, my lord." The old man, Olyvar, said with a broad smile and stood from the stool, going to stand elsewhere in the pavilion.

The Lord looked at Guillaume, there was a mixture of concern and curiosity writ upon his face. "I think I will." He said as he took the old man's former place on the stool. "I hope you are comfortable enough and not in too much pain. Maester Olyvar told me you were unlikely to wake when we first found you along the forest road." He gestured to where Guillaume assumed the old man had gone. "He is skilled, but even then I had a certain feeling that we would be carrying you bereft of life to a Septry for burial. Can you talk?"

Guillaume was unsure what a septry was, but for now, he pushed such thoughts aside. There was a more pressing manner. Namely, discovering if he could speak whatever language these folk spoke or if he could only comprehend it. "... _Yes... I can..._" Guillaume struggled out and sighed. It may have brought a raised brow from the lord, but it relieved Guillaume greatly. It was not easy. It was not alike to speaking reikspiel, something Guillaume could do fluently and without hindrance. Instead, it was... he could not think of a way to explain it, even to himself. It was just peculiar as if thinking on it less would make it easier. It was alike to when one could do something without fault purely from memory, but when attempting it with active concentration it would become harder and vaguer. "Where... Where am I?"

"The Kingswood." The Lord answered, his blue eyes narrowed. "Do you not know who waylaid you? When we found you it was as if you had been in some great battle. Your armour was in tatters and what remained of your surcoat was so badly slashed neither myself or Olyvar could make out the device upon it."

"Kingswood? I do not know... Where? Waylaid? No... not that I think." The dread that had been broadly absent from Guillaume was slowly arriving, and it was arriving in earnest. It was if he could slowly feel himself awakening. Realises this was not all just a dream.

"I fear he may have taken a few blows to the head, my lord," Olyvar said, moving back into Guillaume's vision and affixing the knight with a look of concern. "He is confused, clearly."

The Lord nodded. "Yes, so it would seem. Do you remember your name, surely that at least you must recall."

"Sir Guillaume de Lusignan of Bordeleaux," Guillaume said, locking eyes with the Lord, whoever he was. "I was not waylaid." He was beginning to get the hang of this new tongue, though it still felt odd beyond all measure. "I fought beneath the earth, against great foes. I was last in Kislev, now in the name of the Lady tell me where I am and who I speak to!" It was both authoritative and desperate, but beyond both, it was just weary.

Olyvar's brows raised again, and so did the Lord's. "Kislev? I have never heard of such a place. In all my years in the citadel. But you are in the Kingswood of the Crownlands, Ser. Two leagues south of King's Landing, the seat of King Robert of the House Baratheon."

"And you speak to Lord Beric of the House Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven and Marcher Lord of the Stormlands." The Lord, Beric, said as they both answered his questions. "And I have heard not of a Bordeleaux, nor is your way of speaking one familiar to me, for your accent is one I have never heard before. And who is this Lady? The Mother Above?"

Guillaume wanted to scream. The dread that had been building within him was now threatening to overflow and engulf him utterly and he shook from it. _Where was he? Who were these people? Why was he here? _

"I..." He breathed, willing himself to be calm. It did not achieve much, but the shaking lessened, and his mind cleared. This was all the Ladies will, he told himself. This was all her will. She would not abandon him. She would protect him, and guide him to where his quest could be ended. "The Lady." He spoke again at last, more quietly than before and his voice close to breaking. "The blessed Lady of the Lake, who guides all, brings honour to all."

"And my way of speaking is that of Bretonnia, where fair Bordeleaux stands upon the shore," Guillaume said to the other questions. "I know not where you hail from, or you me." He was calming now despite everything, breathing more steadily. "I know not of a King Robert Baratheon in the same way you most likely do not know of King Louen Leoncoeur."

Lord Beric nodded slowly, seeming to understand. "I have not heard of him, no. Nor your land of Bretonnia. I would say if perhaps I had listened to Olyvar more as a child, that you were touched by madness, but I do not hear untruth in your words."

"Nor have I seen a madness like this," Olyvar said, a touch of amusement in his elderly voice. "But I would still advise you not pass final judgement until Ser Guillaume is fully recovered from his injuries. Mayhaps this is just a madness or the odd results of a knock to the head."

"Yes, I think that would be best." Beric nodded and began to stand from the stool. "Ser Guillaume, we shall remain here for a few days. While you rest and recover. When you are, we shall continue on towards King's Landing, for there is a tournament there I very much intend to win." He said with the impetuosity Guillaume knew well, for he had seen it in himself and near all his peers.

"Thank you, Lord," Guillaume said, doing his best to nod but only giving himself some pain of the neck for his trouble. "I will be in your debt." He was truly grateful. Not only for the shelter but for the fact that they were not asking too many questions straight away. In his mind, he truly had no idea where he was, and he would have to interrogate them as much as them he. The possibilities of what might have happened terrified Guillaume to his very core, but for now, they were set aside in place of the desire for rest. Something he had not truly experienced since... since... he could not remember.

Lord Beric smiled at that. "Yes, you will be. Though it is but my duty as a knight and lord of this realm. Chivalry is all, after all." Beric said, and Guillaume could have sworn he winked as he left the pavilion, taking Olyvar with him.

His mind awash with fears, ideas and uncertainties, Guillaume shrugged it off and found himself simply drifting off to sleep almost against his will. He was concerned, but content, in an odd way and he could not explain, not even to himself.

As he drifted, and the blackness consumed him, his dreams were filled with the gentle waters of a lake, and the rest was quite a blur until he next awoke.


	3. Chapter 2

**Again, I am simply amazed at how much attention this has gotten in so short a period of time. May sound sappy, but the response to this is genuinely helping me write. Also gonna apologise for the slight delay with this one. Work decided to be a bit of nitwit and I had to pull double shifts... fun.**

**In some updates regarding the tabletop game that Guillaume comes from. He's still alive, and so is his horse despite the many efforts of our GM. Still two fate points, though that may change given we're currently in a ever so slightly bad situation of dealing with... rough estimate 50 or so... Beastmen without any means of escape. I used to consider the Beastmen the joke faction for Chaos but holy mother of god are they terrifying when it's just you, a light wizard apprentice, a huntress, 4 religious nutjobs and one arrogant wood elf.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

****_I do not own either Warhammer Fantasy Battles/Roleplay and nor do I own A Song of Ice and Fire. I make no profit from this at all.**_**

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**Chapter 2**

When Guillaume awoke that following morning, it all felt like it had been one long unending dream. For a sweet moment it was almost like the last year was but an unpleasant nightmare from which he had failed to wake. But that moment was fleeting, as he soon remembered where he was. Wherever that was.

As he pushed himself up on the cot, there was this odd sensation that he was missing something but that could not quite place what it was. Guillaume racked his brain as he stood, but try as he might his mind could think of only one thing, to find something to cover himself, for he could feel the soft breeze against his skin all over. As such, he found himself, rather than trying to focus on what gave him this queer feeling, instead looking for clothes.

Mercifully, he found a tunic of black wool neatly folded on a dresser that he had been unable to see day before, due primarily to how much it hurt to move his head, or any of his body for that matter. It took what Guillaume would later consider an embarrassing amount of time to realise what that meant. In fact, it was only after he had pulled the tunic over his head and let the bottom of it fall below his knees that he did eventually realise.

The pain was gone.

Not some small part of it. Not just enough to be able to wake and move and function, but every last bit of it. The realisation struck Guillaume dumb for what felt like several long minutes. How? Why? His mind raced with the possibilities. Perhaps Olyvar truly was that accomplished a healer, but Guillaume doubted that thought as soon as it popped into his head, he had not seen the old man use anything even resembling magic and only that could be responsible for such. Eventually, after banishing several ideas that either banked on the will of chaos or some other wholly nefarious force causing it, Guillaume once again convinced himself it was just the Will of the Lady. All of this was the will of the Lady, it was all her will. It was a reasoning that was beginning to wear thin.

With his brief moment of panic over, or at least subsided for now, Guillaume also realised that he probably shouldn't really be able to stand, not with the wound he had seen bandaged on his leg. Tentatively looking down at his leg and pulling up the tunic to reveal the affected area, all he saw were the now day old bandages. Olyvar would likely come to change them, but it honestly seemed like such wouldn't be needed, for Guillaume examined the bandages closely. Not being a trained healer, he simply prodded them with his finger and slowly went further and further into the realm of something one was likely not supposed to do to bandages. Eventually, Guillaume tired of simply prodding the thing, and unwrapped it.

His leg showed no injuries at all.

The miraculous moment was interrupted by the gasps of Olyvar. Perhaps a little too quickly, Guillaume turned to look at the old man, who was stood, mouth agape, at the entrance of the tent he had awoken in. Both men just stood there for several moments, unsure quite what to do on Guillaume's part, and a mixture of shocked and confused on Olyvar's, if his expression was anything to go by.

A silence that was almost deafening was held in the air, until at last Guillaume broke it with a sheepish "_Bonjour._"

It still took Olyvar a little while to process everything, shaking his head when he did as if trying to dispel drunkenness. "Ho... How?" Was all that escaped the man when he opened his mouth to speak. But he did not give Guillaume even a moment to respond to the question as he sprung into action, moving to Guillaume and looking at the leg in the place where once bandages had covered a gash given to Guillaume in the depths of the Old World. "I saw it myself. This is not... Sit, sit, sit." Olyvar said, pestering Guillaume to the stool that Olyvar himself had sat upon the day before.

Guillaume did not object to the orders of the old man, sitting as he was told and not resisting one bit as his leg was lifted, rather forcefully too for a man of Olyvar's apparent age. "This... I saw it with mine own eyes." Olyvar said, more to himself than Guillaume. Wrinkled fingers traced over where the cut had been, and gradually they moved to elsewhere wounds had once existed. "All gone." Were the final words spoken with disbelief.

"I do not know why nor how either, Maester Olyvar." Guillaume said when it became clear the man was done. It did not come to his mind at the time, but later he would marvel at how little it now bothered him to speak the new language he had been gifted by the Lady.

Olyvar's eyes went wide for a moment at the words, evidently he had quite forgotten about Guillaume really being there beyond his injuries. "No... No, Ser, I do no think you would." He stood, holding a hand first to his brow and then to his wrist. "Perhaps... perhaps I was mistaken, Ser. My heat and blood are up, and I am not a young man, Ser." He looked embarrassed now, while still being obviously concerned. "Mayhaps I was mistaken when you were found. Yes, yes, I was mistaken. You were not wounded as I had first thought." It was clear he was, like Guillaume had earlier about the will of the Lady, convincing himself of his own argument to allay greater concerns and worries. "You were merely bruised, clearly. Concussed as well mayhaps. Your pain was internal. Yes, yes, internal." The old man was more talking to himself than Guillaume, it was so obvious that he himself noticed it. "Ser, forgive me." He said looking back to Guillaume. "How... How do you feel?"

"Well. I am well." Guillaume said calmly. "I apologise, I should have waited for you to come before I stood."

"No, no." Olyvar said, still shaken and his voice uncertain, but slowly returning to normality as he convinced himself of the fiction he had told himself. Not unlike himself, Guillaume thought before dismissing such thoughts. "You are well enough from what I can see now. I should have taken a closer look initially. However by the looks of it a night's good rest did you well."

Guillaume nodded, giving a slight smile. "That it did, maester."

The smile was returned weakly by Olyvar. "Good, good. And your mind ser?"

"My mind?" Guillaume's smile soured.

"Your mind, my good ser. When you woke yesterday you talked about some place called Bretonnia I recall."

Guillaume harrumphed and stood from the stool. "And I still would. I recall you suspected it to be some madness. I would take offence if not for the fact I realise how odd it must all seem to you."

"His lordship believes you, if that helps." Olyvar said following a short pause between the two men where both simply looked at each other. At length, Olyvar sighed. "I apologise, ser. I did not mean to offend. In my excitement I quite forgot myself."

"No. It is fine, maester. I forgive you. No harm was meant."

Olyvar nodded. "None." He said. "I apologise also for mistaking your wounds. I am old, ser, and the mind does not age like wine, quite the opposite in fact. If you would excuse me, ser, I would inform his lordship of your recovery."

"Do as you will, maester. But can I mayhaps have my clothes sent to me?" Guillaume asked. The tunic he wore currently was neither his, and nor did it come with anything besides, being simply the only garment he could find in the pavilion when he awoke. "And my armour."

There was a thankful nod followed by a moment of hesitation from Olyvar. "I fear that your own garments were quite tattered when we found you, ser. Your armour was broken and battered, which is perhaps why I took you for so gravely injured. We still have it, his lordship would not hear of it when Arryk, one of his lordship's retainers, suggested we leave it by the roadside. I shall go to him, and all shall be explained to you more thoroughly."

"No. I shall go to him myself." Guillaume said, already striding towards the flap of the tent as he spoke.

"Without boots on?" It amused Guillaume no small amount that that was the maester's concern.

"Without boots on." Guillaume answered simply.

Regardless of the words of the maester, Guillaume left the tent, glad to be free of it and to feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, devoid of the frigid cold of Kislev that had soured him to such exposure he had now. The ground was hard beneath his feet, and though the maester's objections had amused Guillaume, he set aside the stinging in his soles as he trod over pebbles and the odd thorn that lay upon the gravel road. The road was indeed the first thing he noticed, a wide expanse of gravel that honestly barely deserved the name of road. The forest was the second, and to see it sent cold shivers down Guillaume's spine. In the Old World, the forests were places of terror and caution, especially the deep forest, which this was, rather than the carefully maintained and patrolled outskirts that were at least safe enough to be in for a few hours of daylight without worry.

But the dread, if it had ever truly been there, evaporated quickly as Guillaume laid eyes upon the rest of the camp of Lord Beric Dondarrion. There were as many as sixty men there with tents to fit them all. They were not organised, merely being spread around varied sections of the road and some nestled in and among the trees. A force of such size could easily discourage a beastmen herd, or a small one at the least, the ones capable of not being heard from long before they attacked.

Lord Beric himself was easy to spot, sat as he was in a chair near a circle of felled logs that within held a roaring fire. He was not alone, and nor was he silent, as he laughed along at some jape made by one of the perhaps dozen men sat upon the logs. Around the fire too was another man, dressed as a servant, who was attending a boiling cauldron of steaming stew, while the rest were of the martial sort.

Beric was not the first to spot Guillaume walking towards the circle of men, instead it was a boy, a teenager by the looks of it, with hair of a blonde so pale it looked like silver. The boy swiftly pointed Lord Beric to Guillaume and the red-haired lord stood from his chair, a smile broad across his face and hands held out in astonishment.

"Ser Guillaume! I did not think to see you up so swiftly!"

"I did not expect to be up so swiftly."

"Ha! Well you are up now." Beric said, still smiling though he did look to his now rather sheepish maester. "Why Olyvar, did you make some mistake?"

"It appears so, my lord." The apologetic voice of Olyvar answered.

Another laugh from Dondarrion. "It is no matter. No doubt it was an easy one to make. But Ser Guillaume! You are up now, please, join us around the fire, Ellis is making his most wonderful stew."

Guillaume would not refuse an invitation to sit and dine, especially not one from a lord. And so, he approached and seated himself upon one of the logs. He saw at once that most of the other men around regarded him somewhat oddly, and a few with suspicion. It was only when he noticed the boy to the side of Lord Beric glancing at his feet and exposed lower legs that he remembered exactly how under dressed he was. Guillaume had gotten too used to the unrefined nature of his previous travelling companions it seemed. "I apologise." Guillaume said eventually, looking to Beric, who himself didn't seem to care, rather than any of those who actually did. "When I awoke this was all I could find. In fact, I had come out to ask where my trappings were."

"Oh? Ah yes, my old tunic. I had it placed there for you by one of my fellows." Beric said. "As for your own, it is being fixed as it happens. When you were found it had been torn and slashed, though I dare say your armour protected the bulk of it. You shall have it all back once the women have repaired it. For your armour though..." He paused, and shot one of the men around the fire a knowing look, which caused the man in question to flush a shade of pink. "It was suggested we leave it, for there were so many rents, holes and indents in it that we quite feared it was worth little more than scrap. However, I would never have it said that Lord Beric of House Dondarrion makes light of other men's property. It too shall be brought to you so you can decide what to do with it yourself."

"My thanks, lord."

Beric nodded happily to the appreciation. "It is the least one could do. But perhaps, you would like to share why you were so battered upon the road? I see you were not truly injured, but still quite clearly waylaid by quite the opponent. Mayhaps the Kingswood Brotherhood still thrives even! Tell me if it is so and we shall have a grand hunt!" His declarations of bravado were met by cheers of agreement from his fellows, the excited look of the boy to his side, and the barely audible sigh of Olyvar the maester, who still hovered behind them all.

Though Guillaume would likely have relished telling tales of his great deeds in days prior, of the siege of the Reaper's Bounty within the Drakwald, or the combat at the Villa Hahn further within the Empire, the horrors of the womb beneath the earth were not counted among the stories he would wish to tell. Not that they were likely to believe him, if their doubts about him the prior day were anything to go by, or their ignorance of Bretonnia, or even the still odd language they spoke. So instead, Guillaume fell back on an altogether simpler tale that was not so much a lie, as more an incomplete one.

"I fear, Lord, that my memory is hazy." Guillaume began, which drew an understanding look from Beric, but still one that desired to know more. "Though I know whom I fought. A foe I have met before, and a great one. A fellow knight, but one of ill-repute and I would not bless him the dignity of 'sir'. We fought once before, in some village I have forgotten the name of, we were not so evenly matched back then, he was the clear master. However, before you found me, we met once again by chance." Guillaume paused, and saw he had the attention of every warrior present along with the boy. "We came to blows again, but alas, that is where my memories fail me, for I remember nothing beyond the first clash of our blades. I lost, or I suspect I lost at the least, for you found myself on the roadside and not him. If I had won his corpse would be where I had been. Why he spared me, I know not."

"What is his name?" The boy to the side of Beric, who spoke with a regal voice for his young age.

"Wilhelm von Hollenbach. I shan't expect you to have heard it. He is from near my own homeland, far from here."

The answer did not sate the boy. "Why were you here? Did he follow you?" The question got an agreeing sound from a few others around the still cooking stew, whose tender, Ellis, was far more interested in seasoning it well than listening to anything anyone else had to say. Lord Beric also seemed interested, though he did shoot the boy a certain look that Guillaume could not see.

"Why am I here?" Guillaume had asked himself much the same, he had asked it more times than he could reliably count, though he never had much of a head for numbers beyond counting coin, that had been the wizard's job. "To tell the truth, I do not know, or at the least I do not recall. I am not the victim of some madness, but my memory is not clear." Oh it was, it very much was, but these did not seem like the sort to understand the will of the Lady.

Again, his answer was not met with much welcome by the boy, and this time it also seemed to irritate a few of those around. Before any more questions were levied, Guillaume answered the second. "And he did not follow me, that much I at least know. Nor did I follow him. As I said, it was by chance, a moment of ill luck on my part, else wise I would have been riding in days gone and been out of the accursed woods."

"Why-" The boy began again before he was cut off by Lord Beric.

"You must forgive my squire, Ser Guillaume." Lord Beric said, sending the boy a jokingly scolding look. "Lord Dayne is yet learning his manners." At Guillaume's following look of confusion he explained. "Young Ned here is the Lord of Starfall, but also happens to be my squire and has yet to be knighted, in fact I'd wager that is some years off yet." Ah, so this was a realm where knighthood functioned similar to how it did in the Empire, a useful fact if ever there was one.

Dayne pouted slightly at this. "I'll be a true knight some day." He said with a conviction that Guillaume couldn't help but recognise as so similar to that showed by Guillaume himself and thousands of other young Bretonnian men as they started their quests of errantry. "Just like my uncle."

"One day, yes, but not now." Beric smiled again and ruffled Dayne's blonde hair. "I am to wed his aunt you see, Ser Guillaume. Part of it was that I take young Ned here as my page as well. I raised him to become my squire when he passed his first decade..." He looked to continue, but a noise from Ellis drew his attention. "Ah! The stew, thank you Ellis!"

All the conversations around the circle of men halted as the food was handed out, steaming pottered bowls filled with a delicious smelling stew of rabbit, onion and carrots. Guillaume was also handed a bowl and he thanked Ellis as well, he could not think of the last time he actually ate anything warm, nor this good. In an eye blink, he bowl empty whilst all around him people still ate. It draw another small laugh from Beric when Guillaume set down the bowl on the wooded floor.

"I had forgotten. You have not had solid food since we found you." He said in between spoonfuls.

"Nor for some time before that." Guillaume replied, returning the smile for once.

Another laugh. He was a merry Lord was Beric Dondarrion. Guillaume wondered how long that would last, for he did not see a scratch on the man who was his own age, it did not seem like he had seen much in the way of real action. Guillaume found it likely that at the same time he himself had been wandering Bretonnia on errant quests and further into the Empire both during the Storm and the Crusade of the Child, Lords Beric and Dayne had merely played at it all.

And if they had, as unlikely as it may be, Guillaume could not help but worry what would happen if men such as these had found Hollenbach in place of himself. It was a thought that would plague him for some time he felt. In fact, he knew that it would.

"Would you stay with us?" Beric asked him, interrupting thought once more. "Take part in the tourney in the capital? I would vouch for your knighthood, I have known the organisers to be quite the prudes."

Guillaume considered this for a moment. It was not a long moment, for the answer became clear to him quickly. That old fire within him was rousing, and he welcomed it with open arms. "I think I shall, Lord Beric."

"Most excellent! Why, we can both bring our wounds and scraps to Olyvar together when it is all said and done. Mayhaps a few we would have given to the other."

The sigh that came from Olyvar was of titanic preportions, and his moan of "Mother's Mercy." was met with a hearty laugh from all present, and the boyish chuckles of Dayn,. even Guillaume had joined in.

Green or not, these were good company, Guillaume decided.


	4. Chapter 3

**This took far longer than it should. I'll admit that.**

**Though in my defence, I think some of you can understand exactly why that may be the case. I won't name any names, but there was a certain show that people may or may not have heard of that may or may not have ended in such a way as to insult every single person who ever enjoyed it.**

**Completely coincidentally, I would like to state again that this is book based.**

**Anyway with that out of the way. Really hope you're all still enjoying this! And slight update on the Thousand Thrones playthrough... horse is dead, beastmen ate it. Guillaume is now magically brainwashed and I officially am I complete and utter idiot as I managed to nearly derail the campaign through my stubborn stupidity. Ah well, still have both fate points!**

_****I do not own either Warhammer Fantasy Battles/Roleplay and nor do I own A Song of Ice and Fire. I make no profit from this at all.****_

* * *

**Chapter 3**

His armour truly was a lost cause, Guillaume had decided upon being presented with it. Lord Beric and his fellows had not lied in the slightest when they described how it had been rent and smashed and cut. His once good and solid plate armour, never a fancy or attractive suit to tell the honest truth, was likely now only worth scraps. It astounded him in a way, for he had not realised at the time just how damaged he had become in the womb beneath the earth in cold and ruinous Kislev. He could recall only a few of the strikes which must have sundered his armour. One came from a mighty Orc kept there by dark magics. Another from the cruel axe of a cultist that followed the vile Nurglist Ruprecht. The last, and the greatest, the one that had split the breastplate nearly from navel to nipple, had come from the witch herself.

The only solace Guillaume took was that it had achieved all and more than it had meant to. No matter the blow, they had struck his armour and not his own flesh, or that was how it seemed now, and it was what he had convinced himself.

The underclothes that he wore, however, were still damaged if broadly in good shape. They had been washed and stitched and cleaned by the women of Lord Beric's company. Their work was fine and clearly that of swift and skilled hands. They had once been rich and well-tailored, purchased both on Marienburg and Altdorf, but now their colours vague and washed out and the patches likely outnumbered the original fabric, especially now. About the only thing, he rued, and this was not something he had blamed them for, nor took umbrage with them for, was that they had also seen fit to repair his cloak. He knew at once from Lord Beric's odd look at his own look that the fashions of Bretonnia did not live here, as they had not lived in the Empire also. For in Bretonnia it was the fashion for a knight to wear his battle damaged cloak proudly, as a record of his mortal combats. Guillaume had worn his with pride ever since he had bought it anew and it had received its first slash, which happened to come from the vampire Hollenbach. he had consoled himself with the fact that this merely meant he had the perfect excuse to acquire an ever fancier cloak to repeat the process with.

And it looked like he would have every opportunity to do so.

While it may have paled in comparison to the like of Bordeleaux or L'Anguille in terms of beauty, the city of King's Landing still awed Guillaume. This was mostly due to the sheer size of it, for Guillaume had never seen any city quite so large. Half a million souls, Maester Olyvar had told him, dwelled here beneath the castle of the Kings. not even Altdorf could claim numbers so large. All three, however, could claim better defences and fortifications and just plain appeal. The walls were bland and small in comparison to any great city Guillaume had seen before, even Praag in frigid Kislev was surrounded by more impressive specimens. The castle, which could be seen from miles around, at least showed promise.

The streets too were sub-par compared to any city of the old world he had set foot in. He would grant, of course, that the destitute and pathetic crowded the streets of those cities were just as bad as these ones, that was something he could never ignore nor deny. But in the place of good cobbled roads surrounded by decently, if not splendidly, built housing, in King's Landing he found an assorted collection of poorly built slums that nestled in places directly alongside the more respectable elements. Bits of it reminded him of the doodkanal of Marienburg. Though that swiftly brought a bemused smile to his face, for he remembered those gamblers and thieves who went around in fezs, which even then, near on a year later, forced him to struggle to keep a straight face.

So it was that Guillaume, despite being disappointed in this city, found himself in a rather good mood as the party of Lord Beric Dondarrion, of which he was a temporary part, rode into the Red Keep, which was what the locals called the primary castle of the city. From there their horses, or borrowed horse in Guillaume's case, had been taken by grooms and stabled, their luggage taken by servants and taken to apartments prepared for them. None of the party was to spend their days in a tent or in a simple tavern, all were to dwell in the keep.

"This is where I leave you, at least for a time." Lord Beric had said to Guillaume then as he pulled his riding gloves off. "I invite you to stay with my party here, I'm sure a place by the fire can be found for you, or space made."

There was no offer of a bed, but Guillaume had not expected any offer to be made at all, so he was grateful regardless. "You have my thanks, Lord. But I would not wish to be a burden upon you. I shall find myself someplace in the city." He did not find it chivalrous to mooch off of others for too long, at least not without service or something else to earn it. "Your generosity has been very welcome, but I would not wish to abuse it."

"Nonsense!" Lord Beric said with his signature smile. "It is never a burden to help a knight in need."

"I am no longer in need, Lord."

Lord Beric waved the idea off. "You are a knight without armour or coin, of course, you are in need. Please, stay only a few days more."

Guillaume was stubborn though, he always had been. "No, Lord. I mean no offence, but I would prefer to sort myself from here on."

A crestfallen look came over Lord Beric for a moment, before being replaced with a happy acceptance. "Very well. I would rather it be otherwise, but I will not stop you. You shall have your armour at least." He gave the orders to the servants of the Red Keep, and Guillaume's armour, which had already been taken inside the castle of red stone, was swiftly brought back out. "I would advise a fresh set if you mean to compete unless you consider yourself good with a bow."

Guillaume laughed. "A bow? Hah! I fear I am less than useless with such a weapon. It is not something acceptable for a knight in Bretonnia."

"Well then, ser, you shall need new armour. I would hate to do you yet more harm so soon after you recovered."

"And I would hate to have to treat you again so soon, ser," Olyvar said with a serious look that soon morphed into a kindly smile. "I jest, of course, ser. Should you need aid, I would be more than happy to provide, even if it is Lord Beric who dealt the blow."

"I shall keep that in mind, maester." Guillaume gave a nod of thanks to the old man. "I wish you luck in the tourney, Lord. Who shall I see about entering once I am comfortable here?"

Lord Beric scoffed for a moment before considering. "Comfortable in King's Landing, you'll be waiting a long time, ser. As for entering, ser, you shall not have to worry. I shall enter you myself. The master of the games would be like to doubt your knighthood, even though I very much doubt that will be an obstacle here, for I hear there are Northmen competing, and they do not go in for being knights."

Guillaume's hairs at the back of his neck stood up a bit at the mention of Northmen, but he calmed himself quickly. This was a new world, and he was brought here by the will of the Lady. He would wait to see these Northmen before he judged them on the merits of those who came from the Old World. Had Lord Beric said Norscan, things would be different, but he hadn't.

"All I shall need is your heraldry, ser." Lord Beric finished, not having seen or noticed Guillaume's little moment. "I fear we did not see any on your garments and the design on your shield was too battered, I recall some blue and yellow, however."

"Blue, yes. Azure to be precise. I can describe it if you so wish."

Lord Beric nodded and looked to Olyvar for a moment. "Olyvar, I shall trust you to remember this should I fail. And Ser Guillaume, if I do relay this incorrectly I can only apologise and vouch for you on the day itself."

"Appreciated, lord," Guillaume said. "Very well, my heraldry is azure two fleurs-de-lis, per chevron or a swan argent." It came naturally to Guillaume to explain heraldry, it was one of the few academic fields he had a real thirst for, surpassing that even of the wizard he had travelled with, who would happily devour books whole on anything, sometimes giving up all his gold for the mere chance at obtaining more knowledge. "Should I be able to afford such, I shall have a fresh shield ready for the day."

"I look forward to seeing it, Ser Guillaume the swan knight." Lord Beric smiled. "Oh! Before you do go, shall it be the melee or the jousting? Or both mayhaps?"

"Melee, lord," Guillaume answered quickly. "My vows prohibit me from taking up the lance until I find the grail. I know it will sound strange to you, but honour dictates it."

Lord Beric looked a bit bemused but nodded regardless. "Very well, ser. I shall not question matters of honour, at least not one so mild as this. I wish you well and know that should you ever change your mind you shall always find a place with me."

As Lord Beric spoke, Guillaume's rent armour was handed to him, it was in a sack so he could more easily carry it. Upon taking it and exchanging other pleasantries and farewells, Guillaume left the confines of the Red Keep and entered the stinking pit of the city.

To say it didn't take long for him to regret his decision would be an understatement, but Guillaume was stubborn by nature and one prone to sticking with decisions to the bitter end. To such an end, he descended the hill the Red Keep sat upon and walked down what he surmised was the main street. He would give this city one thing, it was somewhat easier to navigate than Altdorf or Marienberg, though that was primarily due to the fact it sat beside the river rather than straddled it like either of the other two did. In fact, while getting from one place to another in Altdorf may take an entire day and lead you down several dozen dead ends or wrong turns, a few simple questions to the locals produced the answer and directions Guillaume sought, and what was truly marvellous was that they were accurate on the first attempt, rather than the twentieth.

The street of steel they called it, rather appropriately too, since near all the smithies of the city apparently sat either side of this long lane. Of course, not every building there was a smithy, there were still homes, houses, taverns and brothels aplenty, but more than anything there were smithies. Now, Guillaume had spent enough time travelling to note the tells of a good smith from a bad one, from a craftsman to a peddler of shoddy blades, and it was that experience he called upon. He was not rich, he had never really been, and so he sought most of all an affordable one.

In the end, he found a simple enough workshop that opened onto the street. The owner was far from a humble man, but he showed his own works and they were indeed of good quality for the prices he charged. He had baulked at first at the idea of taking ruined armour in exchange for fresh and new, but this soon proved an attempt to still get gold out of the affair. Eventually, after much back and forth haggling and other such tedious things Guillaume had often left to his former companions, they had talked each other down from their original plans. Guillaume walked out with a clean mail hauberk and new helm alongside a simple and cheap shield of oak, while the smith had taken his old armour while still protesting it was not an even exchange but accepting it nonetheless.

Guillaume, now outfitted in not demolished gear, had reached the point where he had to address the other issue at hand, he had no money with which to rent some lodgings. Grumbling at his misfortune and, a bit more jokingly, at the absurd notion that nobles still have the pay for such things as a room in a tavern, Guillaume considered what he still possessed that he could sell. Eventually, he remembered something that had often slipped his mind, something he had carried since his first encounter with the vampire Hollenbach, a dagger of silver given to him to help slay the beast. He had rarely used it, partially out of considering a sword a far better companion in a fight and in part because he quite simply forgot he even had it most of the time. When it came to selling it, he did not do it at the same smith he had just fleeced for armour, but instead a pawn shop owner, or the thing closest to it. He walked away with a few coins of gold now weighing him down. Guillaume did not know the worth of these gold coins in comparison to the thrones and gilders of the Empire that he was used to, but gold was gold.

However, not that he had some lovely hard currency, his time would hopefully be somewhat easier from now on. Finding an inn was not hard, as with many towns and cities a good public house was to be had on nearly every street or corner. The one in particular that he found on a square he heard someone call Cobbler's Square. It looked respectable enough and rose three stories into the sky, each one overhanging the last. The inside was comfortable and well used and throng with people all around, drinking and eating and talking. The innkeeper, a large heavy-set man with a red face and undignified mop of muddy brown hair, beamed at Guillaume as he entered and approached the long and low counter that served as the bar.

"Morning ser," He said with a thick accent that reeked so much of the peasantry that Guillaume came close to struggling to understand him on more than one occasion. "Here for the tourney are you? Won't be the first and won't be the last I'll wager, but the most well to do by the looks of you." It was obvious that the fact that Guillaume was wearing mail and carrying a sword and shield made him look a bit above everyone else.

"Yes, you're quite right." He saw the smile of the innkeeper falter slightly as he noticed Guillaume's accent, but Guillaume was quick to make a good impression, or at least to try to. "I shan't say much of how well to do I am, that is for other people to decide. But anyway, do you have any rooms available?"

The innkeeper nodded, yet at the same time looked vaguely apologetic. "That we do, ser, but none that are private sad to say. So many folk coming to compete or watch I've had to double bunk some. O' course, for a little extra something can be found, ser."He said with a wide smile that showed off a couple missing teeth.

Inwardly grimacing, Guillaume shook his head politely. "I can bunk with others, it is no worry." After all, if you could share living space with an eternally grubby and hairy wizard then you could do so with anyone. "Just make it one of the nicer ones."

"Right you are, ser. First floor room, nice and warm beds with a window that looks over the square. Fair price for it too, ser, only two silver stags."

This was probably the moment that Guillaume had been dreading. Figuring out how the money actually worked here. Back in the Old World, everything was lovely and simple working off of shillings. But here? Lady knows. "Two silver stags? Sounds reasonable enough." Every muscle in Guillaume's body was telling him to haggle, but being quite frank with himself he just didn't know enough to do it without making a mockery of the whole procedure. So instead of that, he simply handed over a gold coin which had the face of some king on one side and a dragon on the other.

The innkeeper's face lit up. "Gold? Hmm, ser is a well off gent." he gave the gap filled smile again and brought out a small lockbox. Turning the key in the lock and opening it up, he revealed it was filled with various coinage. Guillaume watched as the man counted out the change for a gold coin, and he was surprised at the sheer amount he was given in the end, by the looks of it one gold coin was worth a smattering of silver coins with moons on them and other smaller coins of silver with stags on them, the silver stags in question. "There you are ser." The innkeep said, smirking openly as Guillaume fumbled with collecting his money and dropping it into his purse while he himself closed the lockbox and put it back behind the bar.

"If ser would follow me, I'll show you to your room." With a nod from Guillaume, the innkeep exited from behind the bar and lead him to a flight of stairs at the back of the building. They were thin and snaked around the back of the common room so as to give over enough space to drinking. It was dark without the natural light, it being a part of the building that lent against the one behind it, and it was not lit by anything since candles would have been too expensive to use on such a simple space. The first floor itself was little more than a corridor that shot off from the stairs while they themselves carried on up towards the second and final floor. "Just down here, ser."

The door Guillaume was lead to was at the far end of the corridor, next to a simple glass window set into the wall that overlooked the square, showing the bustling space for all its loud glory. Before opening it, the innkeep first knocked, only turning the latch after the current occupant gave a response. "Here, ser. If you need anything to eat or to drink simply find me and you can sup to your hearts content, provided you give coin of course." There was that toothy grin again.

"Thank you." Guillaume replied simply and walked through the entrance to the room, smiling as best he could and nodding to signal that the man could leave. He thankfully soon did, and Guillaume was left in the room with the sole other occupant. It was slightly cramped but could still be considered comfortable. There were four beds, all of them against the walls so as to give the centre of the room a large enough space for moving about. There was scant else there however, only a single table, upon which a short and squat candle sat, along with a couple of stools. The window the innkeeper had boasted of was a large one with wooden shutters that, like the one in the corridor, looked over the square.

Sitting on one of the four beds in the room, the one that lay against the wall with the window, was a younger man, Guillaume guessed at around twenty years old. He had red hair, not unlike Lord Beric, but while Lord Beric was large and strong with a noble bearing, this youth was skinny and covered in freckles. He had placed the pillow behind his head as he lent against the wall and looked at Guillaume with a bored expression, to his side was a longbow and quiver of arrows. "Here for the tourney of the Hand?" The youth asked after studying Guillaume for a few moments, a gesture that was given back in kind.

Guillaume gave a simple nod as he glanced around and decided to claim the bed opposite the youth, the one against the wall the door was set into. "I assume you are as well."

He could hear the wondering at his strange accent, the pause that signalled the slight confusion, but like so many in this city it seemed the youth decided it wasn't worth his time. "Archery competition. I mean to win the prize."

Of course he did. "Well I doubt many would aim for second place." Guillaume noted as he pulled off his new armour and more or less plonked it down on the floor beneath his bed alongside his sword and fresh shield. "What is the prize anyway?"

"You don't know? Seven, you're a slow one and here I thought you were just drunk. What with that voice of yours." Guillaume rolled his eyes at the youth. "It's ten thousand gold dragons for winning the archery. I could buy a castle for that, or maybe a ship of my own, or finally go to that high class place I've heard about."

Suffice it say, that made Guillaume pause a bit. Ten thousand gold? Even with how little he knew of money here, that seemed an obscene amount. "That's... a fair amount." Understatement of the century, it felt like to Guillaume at the time. "Melee the same? That's what I mean to compete in."

"Melee? Uh... Twenty, I think." The youth said, never for one moment leaving his clearly comfortable position.

Well.

Even though the idea of the tourney had been more an idea at some merriment and practice for his sword arm, Guillaume would now treat it a bit more seriously.

Twenty thousand. That would be a splendid amount of money to have weighing him down. He could buy himself a new set of plate armour, a warhorse to replace his dearly departed one he lost in Kislev. So Many different possibilities, he might even be able to purchase some land, or mayhaps some other extravagance.

"Who are you anyway?" Guillaume was roused from his thoughts by the youth.

It took Guillaume longer than he would have liked to actually focus back on the youth and to push thoughts of riches from his mind. He may be a knight of Bretonnia and hold chivalry above all else, but he was still human and as such the idea of wealth still found itself welcomed wholeheartedly by his psyche. "Sir Guillaume de Lusignan." He answered eventually, sitting down on his own bed.

"Knight then eh?" The youth didn't seem bothered by much.

"Yes. And you?"

The youth finally smiled a little, the first expression Guillaume had seen on his face beyond mild boredom. "Anguy. Soon it'll all be over the city when I win."

"You'll have to actually win first."

Anguy laughed. "So will you. I can see the wheel in that head of yours turning. Been doing that since I told you the prize."

"_Touché._" Guillaume said chuckling, which soon morphed into a proper laugh as he realised Anguy didn't have a clue what he meant.


End file.
